


Afflicted

by Lord_Martin_of_Fail_Mountain



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Warrens, mood piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 00:46:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14367282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Martin_of_Fail_Mountain/pseuds/Lord_Martin_of_Fail_Mountain
Summary: A moment at a camp deep in the warrens where the swine-folk live - a short piece aiming to encapsulate the game's mood.





	Afflicted

In the putrid gloom, Druel finally took his mask off. There was no cool air to ease his discomfort down here.

He glanced at the figures lying around the campfire. The highwayman lay with his back to him, and it wasn’t merely his shadow trembling on the stone wall – Druel thought he could hear sniffs and muffled sobs from the man’s direction. The holy woman was different. She was sitting up, facing the darkness crawling into the tunnel, like a statue of a saint. It appeared as if she didn’t even breathe. Druel knew she did, though.

The bounty hunter was nowhere to be seen. He was out there, but there was no noise to give him away, no sounds of battle, no screams of a man. There was only the stench, the stuffy air, and the echoes to tell them they were not alone.

He turned away from the fire and pulled out a handkerchief – more of a rag. Folding it here and there with his gloved hands, he found a patch of it that was clean of dried blood, and started dabbing at his face with it, painting it with spots that would have been red in the light. Here, they were black.

It was rather terrifying how he could get used to the noise, even though it was no regular drone. Sure, he had been to dark places before; his life was not lived in bright meadows and resplendent halls. He knew what dark alleys and hopeless nights were. But this was something else entirely. No mere yelling of drunks, yipping of mongrels and sounds of fighting in some slum. This was no domain of men.

Even though the camp was in a tunnel, plugged on both sides by the dark, the clamor came from all directions. Long, drawn-out, earsplitting squeals echoed from everywhere. The inhabitants of this squalid realm had been stirred from their huddling and quiet grunting. There were hundreds, thousands of them, roused and running about, crawling and climbing in the tunnels, lairs and sewers, eating whatever they could find, wallowing in the filth that built up over years of abandonment. Sometimes, there was a splash, or the trotting of hooves and malformed feet reverberating from the walls. In this labyrinth of paths, turns and drops, nothing found the tunnel yet – but they were not far.

If the noise was that of a pigsty, the smell was worse. Radiating from the very walls, the stench of garbage, refuse and death was more overwhelming than even the noise and the dangers that lurked beyond the reach of the gaze. It was sickly sweet and putrid at the same time, heavy like thick smoke, and the only reason Druel and the others could stand it was the fact that they had to. In this very camp, the fire stirred the foul odor of spilled blood, gore, corpses new and ancient. The walls were stained with things he did not want to identify.

He winced a bit as he touched a sensitive point on his face which left a stinging sensation even after he took his hand away. More carefully this time, he dabbed at it with the handkerchief, frowning through the pain.

Then, he heard a scrape from one end of the tunnel, and his hand snapped onto the hilt of his broken sword.

“It’s me,” a voice said, and he relaxed, but not entirely.

Reaching for his mask, he saw the form of the bounty hunter Machel emerge from the darkness. He had his helmet on, with its pointed top and the shroud in front of his face – likely not much protection from the fetid air. He was alone, only the abominable squeals following him. Druel reached for his mask and covered his face, leaving the dirty rag on his lap.

“’’S all right,” Machel said in his quiet, raspy drawl as he approached, not stopping. “We’ve all seen uglier things today.” Then, he was gone, Druel following him with his eyes, frowning behind his unmoving, coppery face – the one most people knew him by.

The bounty hunter did not spare a word for the man lying on the ground. That one was unmoving now, maybe having trembled himself into a sleep full of nightmares, quiet for the time being, a moment’s respite not for him, but for his companions. Then, leather-clad Machel reached the woman and stopped behind her.

“I scouted around,” Druel heard him growl quietly.

“Don’t talk to me.” The voice of the vestal was as tense as her motionless, hooded form. She did not even move her head to address the man, nor reach for her mace at arm’s reach.

“Still not interested, I see,” Machel said. There was no answer. He chuckled, more angry than humorous, and made his way back to where Druel was sitting. He took his helmet off, uncovered his gruff face and sat down. He was silent for a while. Druel put the handkerchief away and listened to the man’s armor creaking as he settled. Machel sniffed and wiped his nose, then spat on the ground in front of him. The swine-folk in the vicinity did not relent.

“You can take that thing off, if you want,” the bounty hunter said finally.

“No, thank you,” Druel said, pulling the heavy sword closer to him. The leather on its handle had molded to the exact shape of his grip. The blade was filthy. No use cleaning it here, not so deep into the warrens.

“Suit yourself.” Machel stretched his legs, then crossed them in front of him. Another moment of noisy silence passed before he changed the subject. “The woman is worse than the robber.”

“I know,” Druel said, watching the movement of colors and shadows on the wall.

“Listen,” the bounty hunter spoke again after another pause. His voice was a coarse grumble, and he was leaning closer now. “I’m not going to die down here, in this god-forsaken pit. So, if you have my back, I have yours. Agreed?”

Druel blinked behind his mask and took a fleeting glance at the man’s stubbled face and cold eyes. “You have my word.”

“That’s good,” Machel said, leaning even closer, lowering his voice further. “Because those two are going to die. They’re gone.”

“You don’t know that,” Druel said to the wall, and the darkness of the tunnel ahead.

“Yes, I do. The fellow is broken. The woman is worse. She will throw us in front of her so she can survive. And I will not let her do that.”

“We have to stay together,” Druel said, turning to the man. “We need each other. We can’t carry all the bags ourselves, and we are stronger as a group.”

“To hell with the bags,” Machel whispered. “We need to get out of here alive. And those two are unreliable. You need to be ready. Understand?”

“Ready for what? To leave them to their deaths?”

“You speak as if you’ve never done that before.”

The man was scrutinizing him. Druel held his gaze.

“We need her on our side,” the leper said. “But… I know what you speak of. I won’t fall with her, if she does.”

“Fair enough,” Machel nodded, then looked at the vestal for one more time. Her name was Adeney. The highwayman was called Maunsell. Druel was not sure if it mattered. Machel didn’t seem to think so. “I’m going to shut my eyes,” the bounty hunter said finally.

“All right.”

“Try to get some bloody rest.”

“All right.”

The man lay down, pulling a bag under his head. He really did shut his eyes, but Druel was not sure if he fell asleep. Druel couldn’t, really. This noise was worse than any dangerous slum, any dock full of vagrants and outcasts. Sitting as he was, he could get used to it, not worry about what was making that louder squeal, or what that snort was that sounded closer than the other noises. But if he closed his eyes, the unholy choir broke down into pieces. Hundreds of those little wretches that looked like lumps of flesh. The big, fat ones with their rusted cleavers. The missing arms and the useless third legs. Drooling, foaming, vomiting pig snouts. If all the people in the world would have been here, they wouldn’t have called Druel a monster.

The highwayman – Maunsell – gasped and kicked. Then, there was a tense moment, and there was a sigh with the weight of the world.

And Druel knew the tales. He knew what the lord of the hamlet was after. There were other groups. There were veterans in the tavern, and others in the abbey and the sanitarium who were crippled – in body, or in their mind. Or both.

And this place, these putrid warrens of the shrieking swine, where unspeakable experiments were dumped to fester and sprout a filthy ecosystem; this toxic place with its ground covered in corpses and excrement; this place that should not have been real… The most hopeless thing to know was that this place was far from being the most nightmarish there was. That there were darker halls than these.

Druel slowly took his mask off, and stared into his memories, not finding much to hold on to.


End file.
